


In the Pit of Hallowed Snakes

by CVNNBL



Series: Ophidian. [2]
Category: Ophidian - Fandom, Original Work
Genre: Goretober, Goretober 2019, Grimdark, LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Character of Color, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, Other, Short Stories, Side Stories, Story Prompts, Web Serial, Writober, goretober prompts, implied underaged attraction - cw, ok not inherently grimdark, wanted to try my hand at intense violent horror, web novel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2020-11-27 02:10:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20940569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CVNNBL/pseuds/CVNNBL
Summary: "Tell me... Why does the Oracle fancy snakes so much?""Because their venom is precious. They are quiet and deadly, much like any assassin, yet when you see them under an innocent gaze-- they seem innocent and sweet like a common garden snake. Knowing that, would you reach out to pet the snake secreting poison or would you mind your business?"--Short prompt based fics pertaining to my original universe around In the Garden of Snakes. Mostly stories of the main characters and their lives.





	1. Bruises

**Author's Note:**

> prompt 1- bruises.

It’s nearly dawn and he’s just arrived home. His bedroom sits black and bed shrouded in messy sheets he never thought to straighten. But it’s good to be home, sitting down with the sack of winnings within his lap. He’s succeeded and that’s all that matters. Now all he has to do is tuck the money somewhere into the depths of his hoard chest and dip in when he needs it most.

He’s so very tired, that Oracle is. Four hours on his feet of constant moving, ducking, dancing with a man he cared nothing for. He just wanted to win. Now, four hours is nothing, he knows that. Tending to several acres of farmland from dusk to nightfall, the time means nothing but another day—a break, if he could say that. Yet, taking that, plus the aches and pains from the previous night, his body screams for a night off… just one.

“You have got to stop sneaking off for this… fake thrill,” Galleon ran his skinny fingers through Mohan’s hair to pull it all back into a messy ponytail. “You might end up getting yourself killed with these freaks.”

“Get away from me.”

“Then you explain these marks and knots to your mother.”

“Fine. _Get away from me._”

He’s riding a high that can’t be competed with the impotence of a nosy scholar. Galleon Sybel couldn’t seduce his way into that euphoric cloud that filled Mohan’s lungs even if he tried harder. But he wanted to be alone with the old, dirty sack of winnings that sat in his lap.

The cheering and yells still echo in his head, demanding for a winner as he wobbled to his feet. He’s there. He’s floating on those demands. Ready. _Determined._ His body tingles with excitement and he’s sure something is broken, but it’ll be tended to later. Mohan can feel his need to win spiking. He can do it.

Fists up, eyes focused, he prepares with a stumble. There’s gold on the line. Rings. Diamonds. All awaiting to be taken home by the victor. He’s ready. He’s so fucking ready. There’s no doubt in his soul, no hesitance in that dance of poorly timed swings. Mohan is no professional, but he’s learning.

He dodges, ducks under a messy swing and takes one for his own into the ribs of the lumbering brute before him. He can hear the groan of the older man as he staggers to the side, the onlookers shrieking with boisterous hysteria at they pound on the wooden railings that kept them barely separated from the men below.

“KILL HIM!” They shout hoarsely. Their taunts becoming more and more violent. Yet Mohan thrives from it. The energy of it all overwhelming the stench of sweat, vomit, and old blood. It’s the revitalization he needed, or he was bound to lose another fight against another powerhouse of a Champion. And here he stands, using every opening to his advantage. He swings and it cracks at the Champion’s jaw. Another strikes his cheek with a force that sends a painful shock up Mohan’s arm.

Is he lucky or has the exhaustion weakened his adversary? Either way, the flex of his fingers, painful as it was, cracked as he yanked on the thin hair of the taller man, bringing him down to meet with the top of his knee. A long fight and it brought the finishing blow that left him falling back to the concrete floor with a meaty slap.

Silence. The wooden floor around him groaned as the viewers leaned over the old railing with buggy eyes and mouths agape. A yell comes from the crowd, not one of anger but one of enthusiasm and raw elation that raised the hair on his arms.

A lucky win and an even luckier pot.

Mohan grips the old sack, the coins jingling as he stands with a wince. He can see the blotches purpling at his arms and the scratches redden at his chest. The others from the first two of his gauntlet have begun to heal in small black spots at his hip and a few scabs scattered elsewhere.

But he won the pot.

He defeated the champion.


	2. Blood and Wounds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt - blood / open wounds

The world sits so big to small feet.

He’s always in awe of what the world brings him as he travels through the grass with the fresh eyes of an innocent child. He can hear the sound of the waterfall crashing at the rocks as he wades his way through the river—so cold that it makes the bumps on his skin rise and hair prickle on his arms. Mama kept telling him to stay away from that dangerous river and it’s jagged falls, and he simply took it up as a challenge. He wanted to see what lay on the other side.

Mohan was the adventuring type and his mother hated it. With the war rising in the east and bandits circling the edges of sanctified forests, she wanted him as close to home as possible. The edge of the farm was the furthest he could go… and even then it was pushing it. But he knew better. Mohan knew the nature out here better than anyone else or that’s what he believed, that is.

Here sits the circle of life—animal eats animal. Man eats animal. Animal eats man. That was the gist of it, right? As long as he wasn’t one of the unfortunate souls eaten by an animal, he was lucky! But Mohan had to know what lay so far in the rest of the forest.

A difficult trek it is. Grey branches lay sharp at his bare feet. Some scratch at his skin and others poke harshly at his toes. The grass here comes up to his knees as if no one but those who dwell here have pressed some of it down. Though fresh and green, he began to notice the tips of the grass sparkle red with liquid. Trees have been marred with lines deep within its brown flesh, exposing the yellowed muscle within. However, it was nothing odd. Just an animal marking its territory.

Right?

But he could hear it. The sharp squealing of something small—_panicking._ He follows it. The frightened noise growing louder as he steps forward through the bloodied terrain. Yet, he’s greeted with something small, a rabbit. One afraid of him than the trees above. This was the start of the circle of life, however there was no animal to be seen and it was entirely too small to be eaten by man. So, he cradles it, bringing it into his arms as he turns back on his trail to make his way home. He could nurse it! Mama had shown him how to do it with dogs, cats, and a few birds, why not a rabbit? Its white fur could be cleaned of the messy red at its belly and its leg could be splinted so it could hop happily once again.

This would be perfect! He could have a rabbit and name it _Lucky._

“There you are!” She’s a muscular woman, light brown skin and round steel grey eyes. She’s the prettiest woman Mohan has ever seen, but every little boy will always say such things about his mother. Though, as he grows closer, her smile falls and her brows lower, “What… what do you have there?”

“He’s hurt and we gotta make him better.”

“I… don’t think we have the power to do that.”

Mohan frowns, clutching the motionless creature tighter, “I do!”

Ayasha takes a cautious step to her son with wary eyes. She could see the messy white fur in his eyes and the red that stained his old shirt, but the smile on his face made her stomach flip. But it twitched. Its broken little ear shudders with life and pained squeak runs her blood cold. She knew that rabbit was dead. _She knew it._ The muddy little thing sat twitching in his grip with lines of flesh—_intestines,_ perhaps, draped over his arm.

“Put it down. Right now.”

“Why? He’s gonna die!”

“_I said **put it down.**_” Her heart aches from the frustration dished out to her youngest, but he obeys quietly and lays the rabbit to the dirt at his feet. It breathes once, twice, then exhales one final time. No more pained squeaking and definitely no more uncomfortable twitching. But she can see it now, in all its gory mess. Its flesh had been torn open by something—a fox or a curious wolf, she couldn’t quite tell from the cluster of its matted fur. Its belly lay open for all to see, a few bugs and maggots finally birthing free of it.

This rabbit had been dead for a while and she swore she saw it move—_heard it **cry**_ in her boy’s arms. He had brought it to life, with just a touch, and it died once he set it free. That’s what she saw… right?

She watched him kneel beside it once again and stoke its broken ear once more with no fear. Its body surges once more, still in agony, begging for that ounce of sweet release that almost brought her to tears. The rabbit was in pain no matter what he did and from what it looks like, he simply didn’t understand why.

“Come here, Mohan. We’ll bury it together, okay? Because your little friend won’t make it like this.”

“We can’t save him?”

“No, honey.”

“Oh.”

Ayasha had seen war. She had seen the bloodshed of hundreds of assassinations and yet the heartbreak of her son is what hurts her most. She sighs, combing her fingers through his short brown hair with a scrunch of her nose, “You wanna name him? We’ll put it on his gravestone and put him next to the rest of our small friends.”

“His name is Lucky.”

“Oh yeah? And he’s Lucky for you to have found him…”

And she’s lucky to have witnessed such a skill from such a young child.


	3. Tethers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: broken bones and too many limbs

“Brother Babin said he saw someone creepin’ around. Kept saying their _‘aura’_ or something felt too evil for him to approach.”

“You believe him?” Damien tilts his head, “Must be worse than Mohan moping for him to turn tail.”

Elli snorted, “Priests are always afraid of something in the dark.”

Chaska, the eldest of the three and a priest himself, stopped and glanced over his shoulder, “I don’t think that’s how that works.”

“Then what _do_ you think is down here?”

The priest shrugs, “Probably an old witch looking for a safe place to stay unknowing of where they are.”

Damien bites his lip and Elli frowns. The two of them didn’t quite like handling foreign witches. It was hard to convince most of them that this was holy land and in order to live comfortably, they had to go through council. Was there a fight? Usually. They argued and kicked and screamed about the land despite the fact that nothing there was free. It was all claimed, if not by the Astani people, unfortunately by the Kularian sanctum and the Empire.

“So,” Damien starts, “How should we find this witch?”

“We split up. I’ll make my way to the shrine, Elli can make his way to the back entrance and, well…” Chaska scrunches his lips. “Out of the three of us, you know Mohan’s dips and corners better than us. Can you check those?”

“As long as there’s someone on the other side of that entrance to make sure your brother here doesn’t start a fight.”

A mocking laugh comes from the soldier and smile from the priest. Though they are Mohan’s brothers, they’re nothing alike. Chaska was an educator over a priest. He wasn’t a fighter nor was he one to stir up violence like his twin who ran this village with a gentle heart and a fearless fist. Elli, however, joined the imperial military at the side of his god-brother. “Stronger together,” is what he said when they enlisted. His father didn’t care for the decision. Told the both of them that they were fools to bend knee to an Empire that never cared… despite knowing his own wife’s position that’s she had carried for years.

Nevertheless, this is the family he had and this family had a purpose to protect a village no matter the cost. Damien sighed. He hated down time. It left him doing menial tasks like this rather than finding a suitable tutor to hone his ability to fight or actually being out on the battlefield. He almost felt at home there, especially when he wasn’t working contently at Mohan’s side. At least there, he was doing something he loved _with_ someone he adored… not saying he didn’t love the Chaska and Elli. If anything, they were like brothers to him.

He’s wandered deep into that cave now that he’s forgotten where he was going. Every other corridor almost looked the same before the locals decorated them with gifts and cloths for the more private shrines towards gods and saints they worshipped, but this one was empty—_black_ in both directions.

“Knight,” a voice echoed, “I see you, Knight.”

Damien paused for a moment, “Do you know where you are?”

“Yes. This is the home of the fallen. I’d like to stay here.”

“And you can, we just have to announce your presence as a friend… hopefully you are not a skinwalker.”

“Would it be inadvisable for me to live if I were?”

“To them, yes.” Damien takes another step forward, “The people here are safe, but they cannot take another harsh blow to this community. They fear anyone who remotely _looks_ evil.”

“I do not see myself as evil… Simply curious. Forever hungry for knowledge.”

He nods, “Good. That’s good. Show me yourself.”

The silence makes his ears ring, but the man returns a reply, “I have fallen, Knight. Please. Collect my head. It is lost in the dark. Find it.”

He squints. “Find my head,” he repeats, “is… is it somewhere specific?”

“You’ll know when you stumble across it. Look for the red.”

_Because I can see you._

He froze in his steps. Something deep within him felt like needles in his veins. Whatever lies in this black may not be inherently evil, but it’s what damn well created it. The man in this darkness was seen by others and feared by other priests. So _what was he? _What was this creature that struck fear into the hearts of the people who lived here? Was it dead? The could be no fear there for they saw the dead walk every so often for the sake of honoring their fallen.

Didn’t make sense when their Oracle could raise the dead willingly.

“The boy knows I’m here.”

“What boy?”

“The one who eats the void.”

He must mean Mohan… or at least, that’s what he hopes, “Did he allow you to live here?”

“Yes. Gave me the black. Allowed me to feel the void.”

“How did you lose your head?”

“It falls off on occasion, but it did not return to me. I cannot seek it out.”

“Okay…” Different, but not odd knowing Mohan. He had found little corners within Crystalhiem that his friend had occupied with what he called “micro areas of study.” It was to help him understand “that which could not be understood,” like mana consumption in animals and creatures taking the roles of human to live that odd life where they could live like morals. Though to be honest, the room teeming with snake tanks has been the one that takes his most time.

But why some random man? Beast? Demon? There had to be a reason somewhere, but he knows not of how that man’s head works.

Damien stops. In the dark, there’s a shimmer of red in the distance. Then a few more join in a set of diagonal lines like little lights.

“There! _There!_”

As he creeps forward, he can hear a crunch then a grinding noise of what sounds like stone on stone. There is breathing at his ear, cold and raspy.

“Show me your light, Knight, and I’ll reward you with my visage. Forgive me, it is rotting…”

The paladin reaches out with caution, upward to the ceiling of the caven. His fingers crawl against the stone walls, but it feels… _different._ It feels like _mold_, but with far more little hairs. There comes a little dip, one filled with a cold, thick liquid. A flicker comes, then a line of heat beneath his fingers that lights up that divot with orange fire and dim flare. But he could see.

On both sides, he could see.

A wet slap against the floor almost startles him. Fear creeps up the back of his neck and tightens his throat. By the Creators, do his eyes sting—they _burn_ like he had been trying to focus on something after staring off into the sun for hours. His head felt like it was spinning—spinning, spinning, spinning, spinning—riling up the nausea in the back of his dry throat.

Damien coughs, but over the sound of his light heaving and sickly coughing, he could hear that crunch again. It sounds like rocks being grinded together before he could hear the sound of sharp snaps. However, he has a grasp on his vision, albeit blurred.

He greets no man once his eyes are cleared.

Red eyes, six, all focused on him from the rotted snout of a decaying goat head. The horns sit lopsided on its head, but it holds no bodily figure. It shuffles forward with a wet squish, the husk cracking as it does so, the sounds of hands slapping against the stone walls as it pushes forward.

“Do not be afraid. I am still a friend.”

“Stay where you are.”

The creature blinks, then rises, now pressed against the ceiling, but he could see it—arms, hands, fingers, all jetting from its torso and back, but where his arms lie nothing but heavy smoke that kept him tethered to the back of the cavern. “I told the Void-Eater that his Light would find me eventually… And here you come.”

His eyes still hurt, “What are you?”

“A tethered friend. I am not dangerous. I wanted to be found by you.”

“Why do you insist on labeling him as ‘the Void’ and me as…”

“The Light?”

“Yes.”

Its voice drops, “Because that is what you are.”

Damien could hear the sound of its horns scraping against the cavern ceiling as it stepped forward, but he’s too fixated on the brightness of its red, glowing eyes to move now. “I don’t think it’s because I’m a paladin…?”

“You are no Paladin.”

“Excuse me?”

“There lies a difference between you and they. You fight with an unseen power; they pretend to use power used in bibles.”

“What… are you talking about?”

Mohan knew about this thing, didn’t he? He knew this creature lurked amongst men and never spoke of it. Why? To study him? No, no… This room is too dark. Even after lighting it, the fires were extinguished quickly. They sat flickering dimly just long enough for Damien to see it. But _why?_ It didn’t come across hostile, just cryptic. Yet, he wonders, listening to its joints and bones crack and crunch with every movement, how did any other priest come across it?

Was it able to walk and move freely before whatever roped it in? Was it once a man before it became… _this?_ He still can’t figure out **_what_** he’s looking at. It was like staring at a hunk of formless charred muscle glued together with cooked skin and exposed… _something._ Goddess only knows what pain its body must feel with every jostle of its wriggling limbs, finger-like branches flexing as they reach out towards him then recoil back.

“You…” The goat-beast lurches forward, the blackness behind it almost yanking it back like a dog on a leash. There’s a snarl of pain as it staggers back, all of those eyes still staring, still focused, “You are far more than any warrior saint and others will loathe it. They’ve killed you once for it, Light, and your anger—your _strength_ won’t allow you to fall to the Dark. You’ll simply rise once again. Stronger. Angrier. Dangerous… just like the Void-Eater.”

_You will bring blood, light, and glory as you protect what you love most._

It makes his stomach twist when he hears it speak, the smell of the putrid rot that lie on, what he could only assume, was a maggot filled tongue left a smell so rancid, even devils would turn tail. How could Mohan stand this? Perhaps his curiosity was a lot more morbid than Damien once assumed. Had these ghoulish beings fascinated his friend to the point of capture or enslavement? No… This almost feels willing, strangely enough. As if it wanted to be here… to _die_ here.

“What are you?”

“I am a Tether. Our jobs are to lead our creations in the right direction when they’re ready, but with time, our bodies deteriorate. I questioned the Void-Eater to allow me to die on the ground the cosmos created.”

“Why did you speak with me?”

“I had a chance and I took it.”

Damien pauses, “What now?”

“Seal me in. Allow me my tomb, then go out and strike down your enemies. Don’t let them tether you… You’ll end up decaying for eons wandering ages looking for a head you’ve lost years before.”

The last ounce of light from the oil divots finally smother out with a silent sizzle. The sparkle of the Tether’s eyes dim before finally disappearing into the black behind it. Alone, Damien can still feel something lurking about… but that’s how it is, when you’re standing in the crypt of a dead being.


	4. Hunt or be hunted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: mouth horror / hunt or be hunted / teeth

“Na’kala.

I remember Na’kala… She should have killed me with the rest of them.”

It’s a smell you never forget. It’s one that makes your nose twitch and your stomach growl. It was specific, like it beckoned to you with the smell of unripe vegetables and something bitter. Then it would trail, like bait, a sickly sweet scent that led you to your death. The plumes that surrounded her were thick and green as roots, healthy but riddled in thorns would sprout from the earth she walked upon to snatch up the slow and children first as it dragged them into that haze screaming.

They knew this day was coming—_their reckoning._ The Druids always knew she would come and wipe them clean to remold her people to fit her image more than humans. They knew they’d incur her unholy wrath once they allowed halfbreeds into their homes and camps.

They spoke stories of her hatred towards others. They were pushed out because of them being monsters, why not retaliate? These were creatures of nature. And nature, as a whole, could be built to destroy the beings that forced them into seclusion. But her people needed a cleanse and anyone caught in the crossfire deserved what they got.

Stories like that used to terrify Kataleya, mostly because she knew her home had to be next.

And when that day came a storm followed suit. Blinding rain and loud wind, they saw it coming and most accepted their fate. She remembered the bodies the elders found, some eviscerated, others more…_ clean._ Deaths were done honorably. The throat of the mother was slit. The children were smothers or their necks snapped. Fathers were gutted by their own hand. Humans were poisoned or hanged… But the rest of them? They stood ready to see their end… _if_ it actually came.

When the storm quelled, they could see the rise of lush greenery crawling through the village. Vines of green, thick and covered in red thorns wrapping themselves around anything it could as if it were trying to pull itself free from the grips of hell.

_And she will step forth from the grasps of the dead to bring the unholy garden behind her. For it will poison the land and devour the living._

But how do you survive that? You shouldn’t. You’re not supposed to. Those are the rules to the story they use to instill fear into children… and yet.

* * *

Sanev pressed a hand to Kataleya’s shoulder. As Oracles, he knew their stories would be tragic. The mental trauma most had gone through when they were young or at death sits with them for ages. However, he had been trying to coax this one out since her rebirth for Kataleya Vollan was stronger when her body was rescued from the horror inflicted from the sailors she sailed with. Had she been expecting such a recreation, he’d be worried, but if there was something deeper, something that made her stomach churn and her heart race, he’d at least try to mend the broken minds and repressed memories.

“I told you, I don’t judge past actions. You know that. When you begin to come to terms with what happened then and how you survived this long, you’ll know you did what was right. Go on.”

She stares at him for a long time, blankly—_emotionless._ He was her mentor, of course. Sanev had always been there for her even before her death. He’s was the shoulder to cry on or the ear to complain to. Alas, she takes a breath and closes her eyes.

* * *

There was death in the forest, bodies littered everywhere of people trying to escape, but they were lost to that thick, green mist. The vines had curled around their bodies and left them nothing but dried husks. Some reached out for the corpses before them, fingers extended as far as they could. Others were shrivled up with faces forever etched in horror.

But where could she go? That green fog was coming and she could smell that nauseating sweet.

“Why do you run?” Her voice was haunting. The way it lulled Kataleya into a false sense of security sent a chill down her spine. It sounded hollow, no true emotion to reverberate in her throat. “Are you afraid of me?”

She didn’t answer. Instead she watched the Death Queen step forward. Na’kala was like the leviathan of wooden squids. Those thick vines beneath her guided her forward, but she could only see them as the tentacles of a squid. Her body was… _extravagant._ There were flowers in her skin, some easily recognizable as nothing but poison, but the rest, like lilies on green-brown, bark-like skin. She had bright, reflective yellow eyes with black skinny slits that put Kataleya on edge even further than she already was. Her face sat wrinkled like the trunk of the trees, a long black line down the middle of her lips and down her throat, but indeed, she was beautiful. She was more than just a god—Na’kala was _nature itself._

But she should have been dead then… and yet, there she stood.

“Do you know why they ran?” She tilts her head, “Speak.”

Kataleya flinches. Hollow words could only go so far with a creature like her. “We’ve tainted your livelihood. Cross-bred with… with humans. We’ve sullied your name.” She could feel the tears burning in her eyes and the snot beginning to run.

This was it.

“Are you mortal? That’s what they are… right? Those humans?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want power? So you, too, can live powerfully?”

“I don’t understand.”

She can hear the purr of that goddess’ growl, “Yes or no.” It's not a question as much as it is a statement. Kataleya was required to respond or die on the spot.

She takes a breath and gives a silent answer. Na'kala breathes here, her body awkwardly twitching in a harsh jerk. Kataleya could hear it, the sound of snapping twigs and splintering wood. She could smell that nauseating sweet again as the flowers on her skin blossomed. The tree groan as they move with the wind. From where she kneeled, Kataleya could see the yellowed smile from those brown lips as she lifted her arms to the moon, her body creaking as she did so. Her fingers split, like needle-like splinters, her mouth opened, bottom lips splitting down the jaw to her throat.

Teeth.

So many teeth like rows of razors awaiting to devour something.

** _Someone._ **

Then a screech, one sharp and deafening, shattering the windows of the desecrated village nearby. It left Kataleya on her knees, hands clasped as tightly as she could over her ears. Her body was on fire. Her heart was pounding, pounding, pounding like it was ready to explode.

She swore she could feel the world rumble beneath her body, but she could definitely feel the sting of falling leaves burning at her back.

* * *

“Then nothing. She left. I want to say it was a test of sorts, but even then, I… I may have just gotten lucky again. The cursed always end up surviving in the end.”

“Stop that. You are not cursed. Things fall into place oddly, yes. But you have proven that you deserve life. And to be granted life _twice_ by a god? That’s luck, my dear.” He pauses, “What answer did you give her?”

“Yes.”

_Because I wanted to live._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> real talk? this is the furthest i've ever gotten on an writober/inktober whatever. but i'm definitely not going to get this done. so i'm just gonna keep doing prompts to build character stories.


	5. Snakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: animal of choice
> 
> cw: attraction of a minor/underaged person  
(ie: sybel is a freak and has always been a freak and it will not be tolerated here)

He hates snakes, Sybel does. He hates the way they feel. He hates the way the look. He hates the way they smell. And to be stuck in a room too small for two people to move comfortably? He regrets ever accepting to help the Senior Oracle with cleaning, what he assumed to be, a small habitat.

It’s humid in that tight space. The sun sits high above, shining through a man-made glass skylight, bringing in the summer heat, but the old, overgrown stone of the small cavern doesn’t allow that hotness to ever leave. It brings a tightness to his throat as he adjusts his collar, the sweat building up around his neck and chaffing at his covered arms.

Being down here, dressed to the nines, was a mistake. His waistcoat was going to reek of nose curling funk for months.

There are tables set around the room, all small and covered in papers Mohan had drawn on. Some looked to be well lived parchments. They were stained with tea, some where ripped, others had scribbles of what looked to be notes. He can count, that’s for sure, but a lot of the words scribbled onto the sheets were painfully misspelled, like a child who knew their alphabet and how to sound words out but knew none of the proper word constructs.

It’s… precious, and that’s all Sybel can say about this one room. He’d rather see little things like this or the work of his nearby mentor than be stuck in a sweltering room that smelled of mildew and snake shit.

Alas he sighs and watches as Kataleya pulls a small white snake from a tree with a quiet coo. Sybel flinches at the sight of it coiling itself around her arm—the sight of it makes his skin crawl. How could she stand the feeling of slimy scale on her skin as if it were normal?

“Tell me, why does Mohan fancy snakes so much?”

The Oracle snorts. For a scholar, he was more of an idiot than she thought. He doesn’t quite _study_ Mohan as much as he watches how a boy’s hips swing when he walks. Instead, she licks her lips and sighs, “Because their venom is precious. Dangerously quiet and when you see them under an innocent gaze-- they seem innocent and sweet like any other common garden snake.”

Sybel frowns, “There are better ways at extracting stronger types of poison. The man has a garden of dangerous fauna and _snakes _are the stronger key?”

“You’re… serious, aren’t you? You’re a fucking idiot.”

“No need for insults. I study the mindset and behavior of humans not animals.”

The white snake twists around the Oracle’s fingers then rests at the flat of her hand. With a sigh Kataleya shakes her head, “Druids use anything and everything to make top tier potions. Their poisons are always—_always—_crafted with powerful venom. You just have to know which snake produces the best.”

“And an ordinary garden snake can do just that? Surely, you jest.”

“I grew up memorizing druid poison-crafting. I’m sure I know that _I’m_ talking about. Now please, do something other than standing there.” She makes a vague gesture, “Pick up the brown one, she’s been struggling with shedding.”

“I… do not think I can assist with this one. These things disgust me.”

“…But you making doe eyes at my pupil doesn’t? The scale is the same, Galleon.”

He blinks for a moment and steps back, “Excuse me? Two things here, Vollan—_No_ and I have _never._”

She tilts her head to the point that her ear just about brushes her shoulder. With a gentle hand, her fingers grace the tiny planted three she pulled the snake from and felt it slither free. “You can lie through your teeth all you please, but I know what I’ve seen and I know what I’ve heard.”

“Mohan didn’t want me down here, did he?”

“I just wanted to chat.”

There’s a lot about Kataleya that leaves Sybel in awe. She’s stunning—sharp cheekbones, a chiseled jawline, and a sultry gaze hidden behind solid onyx. When she’s working, he can’t help but stare, for his wife could never hold a candle in comparison, in his honest opinion. However, she was a terrifying creature. One whom had etched horror into his bones from the day they met when she left a dagger betwixt his legs and told him to leave her be. From there, it taught him patience on how to handle Oracles, but also that everyone else, apart from one other, is a lot kinder than she.

“Whatever it may be, I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“I heard your sickness is getting worse.”

He nods, “I’m starting to forget days. Notes don’t make sense to me. My head is… scattered at times.”

“Fascinating. Are you sure it’s just deterioration?”

“I hope so. I’ve asked healers what they can do and they tell me to pray… Mohan is the only one who refuses to do anything, so praying does nothing.”

“You’re putting a lot of faith in a boy who commands the dead.”

He’s silent. Galleon Sybel is no witch or mage. He’s never lived aside someone with such a powerful skill that their force alone could kill someone on accident. Back in Visneya, mages were rare, but wizards were the talk of the town. Yet, to him, it wasn’t the same. Anyone could learn to wave a magic stick and heal a broken bone, but witches and mages could do it better. Their magic wasn’t external. It couldn’t be lost. It could only be improved. So, why is it that Mohan couldn’t heal him? Why couldn’t Kataleya do it herself?

Was she not a mage like him?

Nothing here made sense to him…

Sybel sighs, “What am I to do? Every day gets worse and I fear that I may actually die from this.”

Her hands are on her hips now, the jewelry that covered the tips of her fingers clicking against the leather of her belt softly, “That would be a shame, now wouldn’t it?”

“Kataleya, please… This is a serious matter.”

“Men like you deserve the worst.”

Her voice is low but pointed. Sybel can feel that black gaze burning into his pale skin, yet he holds no honest understanding of why. She called him in with the intent of luring him in under the guise of Mohan’s kind requests, but… why?

“What do you want from me?”

“To leave. To die in peace at the side of your wife. I don’t want your name mentioned in my presence again.” She steps forward now, her hand skimming the messy table beside them, allowing another snake to coil itself around her hand, creeping up her forearm curiously, “Champion Ívarr may not have seen what I have, but rest assured, when she learns of your behavior to her baby boy—whatever ails you now would be the last thing you fear.”

“If you are standing here accusing me of…” He looks insulted then disgusted, “hurting him or… or _touching_ him, you’re out of your mind.”

“Thing is about this land is that we adhere to very strict rules among our sanctuary—children are off limits. I understand your fascination with us, claiming that you’re here to study, but your late night confessions raise fear and concern. We can blame it on your condition, but I will not let it thrive here.”

Horror is etched across the scholar’s face. Confessions are to be private, are they not? It feels as if something has been breached here. But he can’t speak and Kataleya’s dead eyes make his heart hurt. Words like this, spoken so freely, yet so confidential struck a white-hot fear in his soul. If his wife heard such words of him batting his lashes at every last younger man, he’d lose just about everything. Yet, the way the Oracle titles him—_a child, _makes everything sound so much worse.

His heart felt a lot towards Mohan, but he did not fall for a young **boy**, he fell for a young **_man._** That’s where the insult comes in, doesn’t it? _How dare she?_ How dare this woman insinuate that he’d ever hold love for a child. That fear has bubbled into a boiling fury.

“How **_dare_** you? Lies like this will do nothing but destroy my credibility. I won’t have slander like this out to get me!”

“You think Mohan wants someone who’s as old as his father? He’s _just_ seventeen—**_JUST._**”

“You say that like it doesn’t make him an adult.”

“**_IT DOESN’T!_**” Kataleya has to take a step back, mouth agape. She’s at a loss of words, but her body is ready to fight. “You have until sunset to leave or I’ll make sure that poison in your head festers to make you suffer.”

There’s a hiss from the snake at her arm, one that strikes towards the scholar, fangs exposed and ready to protect the woman that holds it fondly. What does he do now?

Well, he was always good at persuasion.


	6. Roses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the next four works are short fics from last year that i had posted on my fan fic account. they, obviously don't belong over there. so they are being jammed into this collection because they fit into these short works.

I saw the beauty of the River of Roses for the first time. Lights were strewn about the trees in dyed twine and jars of encased magic. People danced around me without a care in the world, their outfits flashy and wide, and hair equally large and frightfully heavy. This was nothing like home where things were quiet for hours on end. There was music and flirtatious bards who’d sweep you into their grip and whisper gentle words if you couldn’t dance.

I loved it, but at the same time I hated it. I had never been this far from home and as much as I hated the people stuck in their small minds, it still made me sick to be away for so long, and yet… _I loved it._ I loved every once of it. I was accepted here with open arms and guised smiles. They taught me the language as children decorated me with flowers and colorful, handmade jewelry. I wasn’t _alone _here, and that, in itself, was quite the absurd feeling of queerness I had never encountered before.

A part of me hates it, that feeling where everyone wants to be your friend. At a point, I grew accustomed to the silence only the dead could bring. They were my friends even when the living wanted nothing to do with me. They told me their stories, divulged to me legends and fables that thrived when the and the world was smaller… stories I could never get from the living.

And here they were, living history and dressed like old oil paintings.

“How old are you, Mohan?” High General Jacque Calvet was a seasoned warrior. Tall as he was wide and filled with nothing but beautiful smiles. His uniform almost glistened this night, that beautiful shimmer along his blue doublet and the medals alongside it.

“Nineteen, sir.”

“I enlisted when I was your age. Took it as my ticket to see the world… not that I am saying you should be at war when you travel, but!” He holds up a gloved finger, “This was a time where I saw and learned my enemy—as you should be doing.”

“You paint me as a fighter—”

“And why not? You and I are one in the same, oui? I may not have magic and you may not wield a blade, but we hold the one most important thing—_intelligence._”

“I don’t follow. I hear stories of war and it is constant battle.”

Calvet scoff, rolling his eyes as he does so, “Brutes, all of them, mon ami. They know nothing but the _art _of a fight, but with all of these tiny adventures through Barrolea and Alemont, I have done my best to bore you with my stories, but they all have morals, my little one. Take a moment and try to figure it out. Come find me when you get it.”

Without another word, he’s disappeared into the crowd, wine in hand and that same smile plastered on his lips. And yet, it still had not connected for me. What exactly had his stories had in common with the two of us?

Each story was one of daring fights where the victor was never a man anyone knew. He was simple, a common bloke from some no named town, with a life so bland that bards made up the rest simply because it was too boring to go back on. The fellow slew dragons and fed demons into lava pits for the sake of adventure that people fixated on his bravery, when in fact, he only did it for the sake of _doing _it. His name spilled from the mouths of townspeople and royals alike like molten gold on the streets of Ce’fluers… and when he finally fell, they turned him into a silver constellation on their tanzanite roads to the Monarch’s castle.

He became the blue rose petals they cast into the river ever year. They praise his name with smiles and wine as bards belt his story to the people. _The devourer of dragons, _they called him, _the man who embraced death with the shake of his blade! May we hold his name close, his power closer, to keep us prepared for when the war finally comes!_

But it still didn’t connect anything. I could ponder it forever and probably never come to a proper answer. However, I needed an answer. Something tangible other than “poor folk loose themselves once money is involved.” Because they do.

They always do.

There was something I did get: I don’t connect to that man. Poor, yes, but my family toiled over their fields and stood proud for it too. None of us became the overnight sensation that lingered on the lips of the common folk, nor had any of us wanted to either. We worked for our status and latched our claws deep into the flesh of our position. But we were not praised for it. And when I was labeled? No one cared. There was no praise. I could devour the heart of a dragon I’ve slain and they’d shrug and go about their day.

_So what was the connection?_

“We know the commoners better than that of the royals.”

His voice echoed in my head and jumped a beat in my chest. I hadn’t noticed him circle back. I had lost myself in those little thoughts that I had forgotten where I was. “Was it that simple?”

The General nods, “Yes. The story doesn’t tell all the hard work that pushed him there nor does it teach his lessons he taught to his soldiers: listen to your weak and they will give you the strong. In turn…?”

I was almost at a loss of words. “It makes us stronger?”

“AH-HA! C’est magnifique! The word of our people come stronger than anything else. You learn that and you become better. Royals have their heads shoved so far up their own asses that they don’t care about the people beneath us, so we do it ourselves.”

“But aren’t you a royal?”

There’s that scoff again, “I may have been immortalized as some type of constellation, but rest assured, I did not forget who I am and where I came from. The bards can sing my name forever, but I won’t let them erase me so easily.”

Silence comes and it almost dulls out the music around us. Every story he tells is about _him_. It’s a story that comes usual to people like us—the royals only care when you join their ranks. They’ll remind you over and over again that you’ll never be like them, but instead you fight to prove your name is worth it, but they snub it out because a bard sees you more than just a commoner.

“Every little advice I give you. Every little story I tell you—remember it,” he adds, “I will ensure you come across as a better soldier than most as you learn to fight. Every adventure you lead will improve your skills one step at a time.”

“As long as I remember your lessons?”

Calvet makes a reassuring noise into his wine, “Just don’t tell Aslan. My lessons for him are vastly different but still the same. I want the both of you to prevail when the day finally comes that you **_must_** fight… And when you succeed? I want to hear your bard tale.”

_Make sure it strikes fear into your worshippers._


	7. White Paladin.

_You are Death, Lord and Conqueror. Che pyaa mot, Voi’staa._

The war had trickled back across the sea. Ships had sunk deep into its dark depths, dragging them down, down, down into the endless cold embrace. Enemies and allies alike clawed for freedom, but no avail. There’s no freedom in those brisk waters… only death awaits with an unhinged maw, awaiting to devour each one.

The rest stood with pale faces, eyes wide and emotions frantic as they tried to escape their ports and land, leaving everything they worked for behind once enemies stepped up shoreside. They saw arrows raining like flaming stars, dropping onto the commonwealth below. For many, this was death—the oncoming end to wipe their tiny port home. And where were the soldiers? Where was the alliance that stood tall with their Kings? Had they been abandoned by those who promised their protection?

But they could hear it—the sounds of their abandonment through the screams of their dying.

And yet they see it, descending over the cliffs, a waterfall of cascading black coming toward them. Fear laced their faces, watching danger come from both ends, their hearts racing with the idea that both would be their end, but which one came first?

_Let him rise at your side, Lord Death. Helysian pyaa ce mot. Duva cho electoi._

_Duva cho mot._

It came like a cold breeze, sharp and brisk around them, filling the void between them and the oncoming wave. Frozen did they stand, terror in their hearts and tears in their eyes as the army stepped closer, pikes at the ready and shield wall strong. Yet slowly did the mist continue to creep forward, filling gaps throughout the valley and dipping into the gaps of their gradually demolished home. One by one did they see figures creep out, ragged and torn, armor worn and rusted, but they mimicked the small army of soldiers—spears broken and sharp, shields limp but there.

They were dead, they had to be. So many holes and gashes in their skin. No color. The slow, limbering saunter as they crawled free of the black fog. And yet they chant—war grunts and low bestial growls that left a shudder in those who heard. But there they stand, awaiting commands as if its unholy leader were to belt out commands soon.

Instead they saw something massive rise out of that mist, a shrouded figure with horns curling from its head and body slender. It stood hunched, the clouds ruffling down its back like a cape filled with stars and toxin as more of those unearthly creatures poured free from it with a slow, solemn march forward.

_Send them! Speak your spells, Helysian. Lead them._

And then comes the light—one that shines as bright as the Gods themselves, sparking the world with more than just a flash, illuminating that darkness that crept forward in the storm. A crack comes, thunder almost deafening and that light striking the mud between the masses, sending them angrily forward with a demonic roar as they scattered around the horned monster, who simply stood tall among them, unwavering of their charge.

This was the day the Pantheon blessed the port of Estelle. Giving them the taste of what her Oracle and his Protector could really do.


	8. Saint Protector.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you ever just look back at old works and realize how far you gotten?
> 
> if so, pat yourself on the back, you deserve it.

I felt as if I was downing as I sank deeper into what felt like the depths of a bottomless sea. It was cold the further I went, choking me with that brisk, salty water that engulfed me. I was going to die there, I felt it. I was finally going to fall into the clutches of the Abyss and never return… not that time. True death was coming and this time I knew it was time.

It wasn’t like how stories tell you drowning is. I didn’t panic, nor had I been afraid. I was hyper-aware of my breathing, shallow and sharp, but I _could_ breathe. I suppose this was to play on my fears, knowing I never wanted to die like this, but… there was nothing but the bubbling of the water to soothe me on the way down.

I don’t have to fear death by water anymore, I guess… but this is how I greet the Gods—wet and wounded by my own pride. Now I wish I had been better. I wish I had been the one striking fear into my enemies. I wish I had been the one people fled when they heard the thunderous hooves of my steed charging into battle… but alas.

What will they tell me when I arrive to Caanan? “_Your Oath killed you, Paladin._” Oh, I know. “_You should have prayed first, Paladin._” Should have. Didn’t. Heat of the moment doesn’t really give you a moment to pray when you have ten men charging for you…

“_You weren’t good enough as a Protector, Paladin._”

I… was _great_ as a Protector of the Faith. No man rose a blade to my Oracle. No enemy every stood over he or I– **_I was a perfect Protector._** I may be no good as a Paladin. I may have thrown my promises and oaths to the Void, but I stood my ground and proved my strength countlessly to not only protect my homeland, but to ensure the life of our Oracle—_the man I had fancied_— stood before my own… and even now, I know I’ve failed him.

My body shivers at the thought of that. I am alone here and there will be no fanfare when I die. No gates of marble and open plains of to await me… for I don’t deserve it.

And yet… as I sink, I see it—clouds of black, blotting out the last of the sunlight that peeked through the blue. I saw galaxies in that inky black as it swirled around me. Slowly emerged the trickle of glistening white before I saw _him._ Eyes black and face hardened as he swam through that darkness for me. I could see the bubbles seething from ‘twixt his teeth, the aggression dipping his brow. His mouth opens, the frustration still engrained in his features, but I could breathe again. I could feel it in my body, that unsettling shiver that left my body rigid, but flailing in panic as I reached for him—my Oracle, _my lover._

The sight of him was ponderous, massive in size but powerful in emotion. I could feel the extremes of his magic dragging me in, giving me life.

I can feel him.

Touching me.

Giving me strength…

I see the stars of the gods surrounding us in swirls of purple and blue, the galaxies of the dynamic blessing me with the storm to fuel me. I must strike swift. I must become the onslaught that sends this war into the ocean—the angry typhoon that devours.

For him.

To prove that I am the victor.

The _true _Protector.


	9. Unrequited (Rewrite).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i still have other little works to post that i haven't posted and i'm just
> 
> # lazy.
> 
> this one is the last one of older works that i could find. the new ones ought to be out when i can find my flash drive with them on it. <_<

Tell yourself the truth. It’ll hurt, but it’d be worth it. Your heart can heal, your brain will be fine. Your feelings, however, may feel betrayed, but they too, will heal. Do not fret, little one, you aren’t the only one who feels this way when it comes to the truth. He’s been teetering between self-loathing and hurt for hours… and Oracles get so dramatic with their smoke and glitter. It’s a beautiful sight, if you take in the sadness that lies within the flood.

But what lingers within his thoughts to leave him so wounded? It’s fear of the unknown. Fear of himself, mostly. His mind stuck on the same everlasting thought that drug him down into the depths of sickness and sadness. Though, it’s interesting. One would assume a priest such as he would be used to such emotions by now, seeing how many different occasions bring about joy or hurt… but it builds against him rather than making him stronger. Leaves him so quiet and alone rather than open and enticed to study further.

Death doesn’t lead him down this path—it never had. He had seen the melted faces of innocent men and heard the screams of fighting women. From the sidelines, the young Oracle saw the horrors of life feeding itself into the void by the hands of liars and usurpers. What is death if not an eternal battle on the planes of existence?

And yet _love_ is the one thing that terrifies him most. The thought of it tightens his throat and brings a shake to his hands. His heart tightens and his breathing falls into a soundless, shallow whimper. But what is it that does such a thing to a man? He won’t believe it to be _love_… but there are too many stories out there, whispered during his confessionals, of those scared of such feelings for someone they’ve only seen very few times. But he can’t be in love, now can he? Mohan was a priest! They were seen to be chaste and innocent, when in truth, most of them lied to themselves of what they could and could not have.

They were free to seek happiness as they please… _Love_ as they pleased. However, that alone was seen as a joke. Men like him don’t **_love._** They spread their happiness by the word of the endless Pantheons and embrace the kindness bestowed to them. But where would one find such a thing in a village filled with ignorance? A village that opened its arms to strangers on pilgrimage yet shut off their on kin that sat different to them.

Those bastards don’t know _love._

It leaves him to disappear into the emptiness of the surrounding forests, nauseated and ill, leaving behind a trail of inky mists that bled free ‘twixt the trees like a low rolling fog littered with white and purple stardust. He saunters through the ancient wood wearing the blackened fog like an old cape that flutters in flickers off his body.

The world sits muted here, the sounds of the river bubbling in the distance comes across as inviting. Perhaps it’ll help clear his mind, but only time will tell. Water heals, does it not? And the colder, the better when your body is ill.

Slowly does he make his way into the water, his boots casted to the edge and jacket messily folded beside them. The cold gives him a bit of a shock and a shudder, but it’s welcoming to fevered skin. Mohan sighs as he dips deeper into the water with a weak smile. Though the practice is old, he embraces it closely, for water was used to heal, no matter what the ailment was. For a fever, one was to lay against the current of a river, allowing the brisk water to swallow you whole and cool your body. Did it work? Not for most, no. But for mages—pyromancers specifically—it doused their heat and left them thriving… as long as they were _eased_ into the water, that is. Nevertheless, once he’s made it to wading depth, he falls to his back, his legs lifting and feet barely scraping the gravel of its floor. Bliss comes quick, that fear that set pain in the weights on his spine melting away in satisfaction allowing the ghosts that lurk within the sheet of black fog that continued to roll free from his figure.

_He would never care for the likes of you._

Sprits lurk on that dark ichor. They speak. They yell. They whisper… but they never quite side with you, catching you right when you’re most vulnerable. A terrible thing that came with necromantic abilities, really. They were voices that knew how to poke and prod at you until nerves snapped… yet this one wasn’t quite something fueled with anger. However, they were strong enough to sparkle just a little ounce of light within insecurities to really show you how deadly that smothering strength really was.

_Do not be so delusional. How could you have fallen for a man who will never love you back?_

Mohan’s eyes are open for a moment. He can hear them clear as day through the water as if they had been right up against his ear. But spirits are persistent little things, like a swarm of gnats that pester no matter where you go. He can feel the water jostle around him as if someone else had swam up beside him, yet he makes no effort to look or greet. Gently, he can feel something creep through his hair, then down his cheeks with a soft stroke.

“The water is so hot. I told you to come cool off and you’re over here relaxing in a hot spring…” Those hands speak with a voice that lulls. One familiar of his mentor, but he doesn’t trust it. Ghosts are crafty monsters that mimic and tease, but they never stand truthful. “Something is amiss.”

“Nothing is wrong,” he replies. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I must. You are my little one. I can’t help it.”

Do they get annoying? Sometimes. Those wandering spirits that lurk in the dark know how to keep themselves. They often mind Mohan when he needs his privacy, but also use it against him. This would be one of those moments—silent but listening.

“Talk to me,” she spoke again, “what is bothering you?”

“What makes you think I’m going to confess to a spirit?”

There’s a grip to his cheek, “You really think I’m a fucking ghost? I wouldn’t have come if I wasn’t worried. Talk to me. Don’t let your stress keep making you sick.”

Mohan sighs. His heart hurts but she’s right. The younger Oracle never held his stress. It’d turn and twist in his gullet until his body hated him for it. Yet, it always came with work… unlike a few days prior. But where does he start? Does he simply pour his heart into the abyss of this lake or does he suffer in silence?

“I’ve been thinking far too much.”

“About what? Jolyon putting you through the wringer? Found someone who caught your fancy?” That silence spoke more than Mohan had. “Oh! _Oh!_ Mohan! You are stressing yourself over nothing, trust me.”

_Nothing,_ she says. **_Nothing._** It’d be nothing if it were a normal feeling for anyone else, but Mohan has never quite experienced infatuation. He learned from priests, aside from his mentor, and their voices rang the same of shame towards a man like him _expressing_ such feelings. Mohan was a man of honor, so they claimed, to taint his body as other sinners do would disgrace his talents… And those words do haunt a man.

“What do I do?”

“Talk to them? Tell them what your heart feels? This shouldn’t be strange to you, my boy. You can either find that mutual point and they feel the same way or they turn you down… You have to experience heartbreak eventually.”

“You tease me, but I know the truth.”

“And what is that?”

“He doesn’t care.”

There’s movement in the water again. He can feel the body behind him arching over him, the grip of the hands combing through his hair with a cautious tug.

“Who doesn’t care? Why doesn’t he care?”

A pause, “Because of who I am? It seems to be what shoves others away. The discomfort of others is very loud when they don’t want you to see who they really are.”

They don’t hold masks over their visage, they are tentative to him. Some don’t speak and others turn their backs to him. Is it because he’s young? Does he notice more faces against him than for him in this position? It’s always a passing thought when he wanders the cities. People greet Kataleya with excitement, mostly older citizens with their hands outstretched to her and a smile on their faces, but others, far younger, give a bow or an uncomfortable stare towards the both of them. Older denizens watch him from afar, many of them avoiding to speak with him as if his knowledge was worthless in comparison.

It’s a lonely feeling… One that drove him away from many into such a quiet recluse corner of his own life.

“How do you know what? How do you know he doesn’t feel the same? Have you spoke with him?” Kataleya sighs, “You can’t assume if you haven’t at least _tried_ to approach him.”

“Too nervous. I can’t breathe sometimes. Don’t know what to say.”

“Who is he?”

Again, he’s quiet. His throat tightens and he gives a gentle shuddered sigh to shake away his frayed nerves. Yet, quietly he speaks, “Damien.”

A shuffle ripples the water and the hands are back at his face, however they are no longer slender soft, but calloused and large. They pull him up, free from the water with haste, and all Mohan can do is frown.

But the voice he gets, one deep and masculine speaks this time, “What makes you think _I_ don’t care about _you_?”

And his eyes are open now.

**Author's Note:**

> goretober prompts inspired me to go hog wild and dip into something i like but is weak in. so this month in prompts: gore and messy stuff. perhaps, instead of nano, i'll do another prompt list.
> 
> if you'd like the prompt list yourself just to have and/or use [click here.](https://twitter.com/pavus_/status/1177303181434523649?s=20)


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